


That I May See Him

by RobinWritesChirps



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Baking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Gay Male Character, M/M, Middle Aged Men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25825510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinWritesChirps/pseuds/RobinWritesChirps
Summary: Jean Valjean has barely moved into his new house where he’s hoping to find solace and happiness that he becomes acquainted with his new neighbor, a stern man who goes only by Javert, and finds him a lot less loquacious and ready for friendship than he had hoped. A quiet rural life mends all spiteful hearts, though, and the two men are soon to become much closer than either of them had anticipated.Middle aged flirting mess of two lonely men starving for company, whether they’re aware of it or not. Cutesy no-stakes fluffy modern day AU.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	That I May See Him

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t particularly believe I’ll write any other fic than this one for this fandom or this ship but I started it two years ago and I think it’s time I start working more on it and sharing it with the world. Shoutout to my favorite Valjean/Javert duo in the world, Dean Chisnall and Bradley Jaden. Y’all did us a solid, lads.

Valjean was three trays of cupcakes too late when Cosette called.

"I'm so sorry, papa..."

Leaning up and away from the counter where several bags of icing now lay useless, he paused and, taking a seat down on one of the many boxes still sitting unopened in all rooms of the new house, gathered his thoughts.

"Papa? Are you alright?"

He forced a smile on his face − or perhaps it wasn't too forced, never when he spoke to her. He rubbed his forehead and thought a little bit more before finding his words.

"Yes, yes, of course." A sigh of relief came from the other end. "Don't you worry about your old dad."

"You hadn't prepared too much for my return, had you?"

Cupcakes only now cooled down enough for getting iced were covering the entire counter, a jar full of freshly baked cookies proudly standing in the middle of the dinner table ready to be opened and devoured, several bunches of flowers here and there to get rid of the new house smell and make it feel cozy.

"Not too much," he replied. "But are you sure you'll be fine? Have you been to this Marius before?"

She muffled a laugh, the sound of an angel, of heaven's gates opening. Valjean, who was smiling much more genuinely now, rested an elbow against the table and waited for her answer.

"Oh, I've been many times," she promsed. "Look, I'm sorry but I have a lecture, I have to go now. I'll call you tomorrow, alright? Love you, bye! Have fun unpacking!"

He basked in the sound of her voice for as long as the memory kept fresh enough in mind and, a few long minutes later, dropped the phone on the table and stared at the empty room. It smelled of cinnamon and apples and solitude. The house was now his, having moved in just two days ago, but without Cosette, it was hardly a home at all.

"Uh..."

In the small maze of boxes he had yet to open and unpack, he spotted − in much longer than he would care to admit, given how orderly his nature had grown to be − the one which contained his calendar of the year at a glance. He unfolded it, pinned it across the big empty fridge with a few magnets and looked at the present date. Tomorrow was circled and marked with "COSETTE" in big red letters. It pained him to strike her name, even more when he looked for the next time she would be coming home instead. She had been supposed to spend the week here, her only week off between Christmas and Easter, but for her two weeks in Easter she would be volunteering at charity constructions in the south and had not planned to visit him. That left only summer with an immense void of many months separating her from him. He sighed. On the counter lay the cupcake trays, the cookies still in the jar.

Valjean did not have much of a sweet tooth, not exceedingly so. In any case, not like Cosette always had. How long could cupcakes last him before turning bad? Unless he gorged himself forcefully, he was pressed by time. There was, he thought briefly, the option of freezing them but would Cosette not deserve freshly baked, still moist and fluffy cupcakes when she would eventually visit her old father after a year of filling her head with knowledge in Paris? He picked up the phone and dialed the number of his best option.

"I'm so sorry, sir," a kindly voice answered him, "The shelter is short on staff and our food donation deliveries can only be received on Thursdays…"

It was Friday, of course. Valjean thanked her and promised to be back at a later date − he made a mental note to check the programs of the homeless shelter and offer to volunteer. There was always need for mercy and charity towards the less fortunate and Valjean had long ago made the promise to himself to be the sort of person who relieved their burden rather than adding to it. At present, however, whatever small compassion he had envisioned could not be handed out. He had to find another way.

Valjean had not yet taken much time to visit his new neighborhood in all its nooks and crannies in the short couple of days he had been here. He knew that it was a quiet area a bit out of town, he knew he might be on the younger side of its population despite his middle age, he knew the gardens and parks were verdant and plentiful. That had been enough for him to settle for it after Cosette had kindly but firmly insisted he must get out of the big city that stressed him more than it was worth. He knew his neighbor had a garden with a view on his, that it was exceedingly neat and well kept, that their houses shared a wall and that there was no name on his mailbox. Anything besides, he had no knowledge of, not even what the man looked like. He wouldn't even know it was a man if the landlord had not mentioned it offhandedly, giving no other detail than the mere fact of his existing and indeed living in the house right next to his.

Seeing him before his eyes for the first time that night, Valjean wondered if the lack of information had not been to a purpose, specifically to the purpose of getting Valjean to sign the lease without a fuss. He wouldn't have refused it either way, but that changed nothing to the deep frown knitting the man's brow as he opened the door to Valjean.

"You are?" He asked curtly as he might have spoken to someone who had parked in the middle of four parking spots.

Valjean kept his smile. He had nothing to blame himself for and would not be cowed into acting like he did.

"Your new neighbor. I've moved in on Wednesday and…"

"What did you want?"

His voice, though not violently harsh, though not an insult, was a request. There was more than the question, there was the implied additional demand that Valjean explain himself and leave as quickly as he could. He spoke as if Valjean was a pranking teenager bothering him during something important. They looked of an age, though.

"I'm afraid I've made too many cupcakes," Valjean said, presenting the basket. "I've tried donating them to the town's homeless shelter but…"

"Why would you do _that_?"

Valjean felt in him a surge of annoyance that he urged down. It would not do to make an unpleasant first impression − a lesson his neighbor did not seem to have ever learned. He ignored the question and came back to the original point.

"Would you like them? I'm on my own and I don't really have the appetite for three trays of cupcakes…"

The man looked down at the basket and his frown deepened.

"I'm off sugar," he replied and, without a moment more, closed the door to Valjean's face.

Valjean found in several other neighbors very grateful recipients to his offer and made as many promises to keep in touch to be properly introduced at a more convenient date.

He was not in the habit of forming a judgment too hastily. All too well, he knew the value of second chances. When on an afternoon later in the week, he happened to come home at the same time as his charming neighbor, Valjean decided to make himself known again to find a better footing with this man. He might have been having a very painful day on their first meeting. He might have received bad news or been hurting and not in the mood for chatting. He might also, Valjean thought unkindly, indeed have the exact same natural disposition as what he had displayed, but that was only for the future to prove or disprove.

"Hello!" He waved merrily. "My name is Jean Valjean. Valjean. I think I didn't quite catch yours the other day."

The man glanced back at the empty street. He had not reached his door yet − he drove a motorbike and could only park it next to Valjean's bicycle, as they shared a rack on the sidewalk. The sigh was barely audible but forced proximity (forced, Valjean admitted, by himself a little bit) made him aware of it.

"Just Javert."

Valjean smiled.

"No given name?"

"I've just told you," Javert replied. "Just Javert."

"I'm not sure I…"

Javert looked like someone who had had this conversation one too many time with too many people.

"Look, your name is Jean, is it? Mine is Just. Just is my name."

That clicked. Valjean was a bit embarrassed, but that reply was more words than he had had on their first conversation. He counted that as a win.

"Juste," he said. "Your name is Juste."

"Javert," Javert replied with a bit of mood. "Only Javert is fine."

"Just Javert, then," Valjean said and almost winked. Almost. Javert did not seem like the sort of man who enjoyed humor. Or knew what humor was. There was a stiffness to him. Valjean wondered if he had been in the military, maybe the police. "So, what do you do for a living, Mr Javert?"

"Security guard," Javert replied. "Been one for thirty years."

He was twisting the key in the lock that chained his bike into place.

"How interesting," Valjean said. "I work at a factory myself and…"

Javert pocketed the key and cut the conversation short.

"I'm sorry, Mr Valjean, but I don't have the leisure of standing here and chattering. Good evening."

"Good… evening."

The word was lost against a closed door. Again. Valjean sighed. He told himself he might as well get used to that feeling, perhaps.

Having unpacked everything and feeling slightly more settled, Valjean set himself out to get used to this new peaceful life away from Paris. The house was larger than he was used to, perhaps larger yet because of its emptiness. He made himself spend time in each room to inhabit them. Above all, he found himself enjoying the garden. It was a blessed relief, his own little corner of nature right at home. Soon he found himself spending more time in his patio than in any room inside the house and he was setting himself to the task of nurturing the garden into something of a useful pursuit.

A waist level wooden fence separated Javert's garden from his, and yet a world of difference. On the other side, neat rows of vegetables sat between well kempt squares of lawn. There wasn't any weed in sight and any tool had been tidily hidden away, most likely in the small brick shed attached to the house. The entire space, to Valjean, looked mighty clean and organized, but lacked the spirit of life.

His own enterprise was to make his little space as pleasant and peaceful as he could, which to him did not require stifling what was already living there. He bought flowers by the dozens, sowing them by spreading the seeds as if they were birdfeed across his little patch of dirt. They would surely be in bloom by the time Cosette would grant him her visit. There was a pear tree already planted there many years ago to which he added fruit bushes and, yes, maybe a few small patches of vegetables as well to make it all balanced.

He was elbow deep into replanting two lovely bushes of raspberries on a Sunday afternoon when Javert blessed the gardens with his presence. Valjean was not immediately noticed and for that reason he thought himself safe in observing him across the fence. A snug checkered plaid shirt, thick denim overalls, heavy duty boots, his outfit lacked only a straw hat for perfection. Valjean watched him cross the short length of the garden to fetch something from the shed. The garden hose, he noted, and also that it seemed to be badly attached to the water tank and was leaking a small pool gathering on the terracotta tiles leading down to the garden.

"Your hose is leaking," he said at once, standing up and startling Javert into a step backwards. He almost slipped on the wet floor but caught himself at the last moment. Leaning back up, he gave Valjean a wicked glare as though the almost accident had been his fault entirely and not to do with what Valjean had kindly tried to point out.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

Valjean huffed in silent mirth, but held up his two muddy hands and a hand spade.

"Gardening," he said calmly. "It seems we have found one passion in common, dear neighbor."

Javert glanced at him and then at the garden. He seemed to be noting for the first time the difference between the two halves of the lawn that Valjean himself couldn't help but see from the first.

" _Gardening_ ," Javert repeated as though Valjean had been comparing his diamond of a garden to a pigsty neighboring it. "I can't tell the decent growth from the weed."

Valjean looked at his patches of dirt where he had planted the sprouts of vegetables bought at the market, the space that would hopefully become the flower bench. It was a messy pack of tilled mud for now, but would grow to prettiness and a myriad of smells and colors. It was a promise of something beautiful. He found it absolutely delightful.

"Ah, but there are no weeds in _my_ garden."

That was met with a grunt as Javert set himself to watering his plants and whether he was too focused on his work to make conversation or he plain did not want to, Valjean would not admit to knowing. An afternoon of quiet passed without another word from either of them.


End file.
